


Going Home

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, In Which Jackson Lives, Jackson in America, Jackson in London, M/M, Post-Canon, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Jackson goes home, but is it really home without the ones he loves?(In which Jackson doesn't die, but returns to London.) Set post-series.





	Going Home

People out there, they say that you can always return home. As if you never left. They say that family, friends, even places--familiar intersections, corner stores, post offices--will all be there to welcome you like a God damned forgiven, prodigal son returned.

Well, that’s a lie. Or, at least, untrue, whether they--those people out there--like it or not.

He went to Richmond first. As industrial and dirty as London, in its own way. Split by the James River and filled with folks tryin’ to make their way in the world. Still repairin’ itself from a civil war his family had fled without hesitation or shame.

With a boy in tow, it seemed like home no more than it ever had, which was to say hardly home at all. So he left as soon as he found transportation out, on a railroad he had technically helped to build, once upon a time.

The West didn’t stick neither. Or _he_ didn’t stick with _it._

He traipsed through Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Oregon, and California before he called it quits and headed east again. Farther east than the ocean.

Back to London. He didn’t give a damn if a Brit bobby picked him up and hauled him into a station, as long as it put him face to face with the bobby he wanted to see.

The one he missed.

The one he loved.

He ended up in a cell within three days.

Nobody looked familiar.

Finally, on day five, a tall man--taller and more imposing than Edmund--strode to his cell, gripped the bars, and shouted at him.

“How _dare_ you show your face here!” Fred slammed his palm against the bars. “I thought we’d _rid_ ourselves of you, once and for all, when we sent you back to America!”

He leaned against the bars. “Hey, Abbs. Nice to see you, too.”

“ _Don’t_ take that tone with _me,_ son.”

Jackson raised his eyebrows, doing his utmost to appear unintimidated and unimpressed. In truth, he was both intimidated by Fred’s physical outbursts and impressed by his violent energy. He would have thought that the old man would have found a comfortable place by the sea by now.

“You know, you didn’t have to drag yourself out of retirement again just to see to me,” Jackson said, lighting a cigarette and exhaling the first puff of smoke. Straight into Abberline’s face.

“Oh, but I _did._ There’s no one left to _deal_ with you, you see. No one _familiar_ with you, at any rate.”

Jackson froze briefly, then cocked his head. He squinted at Abberline, his lips parting. His jaw slackened. His shoulders fell. His heart drummed with a frantic, heavy beat. “Wha...what do you mean?”

Fred stared at him-- _analyzed_ him--for a solid minute before recognition dawned on his face and his hand dove for his keys. He unlocked the cell and opened the door. “Best you come with me, son,” he said.

Jackson peered down when Abberline seized his forearm and pulled him toward the stairs. Then, _up_ the stairs. Past the reception desk. Past a desk sergeant he did not recognize. And out the door.

Into the noisy, sooty, _comforting_ streets of Whitechapel.

Jackson knew where they were headed before they arrived at their destination.

He hadn’t visited Reid’s residence many times, but he remembered where to find it. And, before long, Abberline stopped dead, facing the front door of 14 Fairclough Street.

Jackson glanced at him. Then at the door. He expected Reid to throw open the door, to roll his eyes at the inconvenience, but let them inside anyway.

That never happened.

Instead, Abberline fished for a key in his pocket, extracted it, and unlocked the door. He pushed Jackson inside.

Darkness permeated the house. Silence pressed upon Jackson’s eardrums.

Fred pushed past him, leading him into the sitting room.

When he entered the room, Jackson tried to disguise the sound of his own sharp breath. The room was bare, save for a few pieces of furniture. No frames hung on the walls. No place settings decorated the table. The mantle of the fireplace stood naked.

Realization dawned on Jackson. Crushed him. Flattened his lungs. He struggled to draw breath. He stared at Abberline, who took a seat at the table. Not long ago, he embodied the example of stern, merciless law-enforcement. Now, he was the very picture of compassionate sympathy.

Jackson didn’t need to hear the words. Not the _actual_ words. A glance about the place told him all he needed to know.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He ground his teeth together.

“When?” he asked, his voice meek and soft. Giving himself away.

Fred frowned. “Three month ago now.”

Jackson nodded. Chin to chest. Once. Slow.

He stared at the floor.

There, in the carpet that remained, he saw where he himself had stepped, once. Where Reid had followed him to his makeshift bed. Where Reid had wrapped his arms around him and held him, squeezed him, _hugged_ him.

The sunlight had spilled all upon them. It had highlighted Reid’s eyes as he lay beneath him, as he’d allowed Jackson to push his coat from his shoulders, undo his tie, unbutton his shirt. The sun had sunk lower, casting steep shadows across the room, across Reid’s body. Jackson had followed every dark, shadowy stripe, traced their paths across Reid’s chest, his abdomen, his hips. Jackson had whispered his love against Reid’s temple when he’d curled his hand around Reid’s erection--hot, and stiff, and eager.

But none of that compared to when he had pressed his lips to Reid’s, when he had made himself slick and loose, when he had sat astride Reid and took his cock inside him. When he had made Reid close his eyes and open his mouth, made Reid roll his body up and _into_ him. Hands squeezed. Necks curved. Backs arched. And voices rose to the ceiling in waves of deep, intense pleasure.

Jackson had combed his hand through Reid’s hair, brushed it away from his forehead. He had dropped a line of kisses just above his eyebrow, over his cheekbone, his jawline.

And he had wrapped his arms around Reid’s shoulders when he came. Reid’s body had jerked and shuddered. His voice had rung clear and loud.

“I love you,” Reid had gasped, still inside him. “Jackson, I love you.”

Jackson had never expected it.

He had hoped for it. But he had never expected it.

But he had loved Reid from the moment he had realized he had replicated the John Hopkins University surgery, there in Whitechapel. There. For him.

He had bit his lip then, grinned, and tested the hot water. But, from that moment, Jackson had loved him, the English bastard.

And now-- _now_ \--he was gone.

Gone from the earth. And Jackson hadn’t known--hadn’t somehow _felt--_ when Reid had departed the world.

He hated himself for it.

“Why--”

He nearly asked why no one thought to tell him. But of _course_ no one had thought to tell him. He was gone, in America. Out of their lives. A vestige of days past.

Abberline thought he was asking something else--not what he’d asked, but information he’d still like to know. “Gunned down. In pursuit.”

Jackson could picture it--could picture _him_ , Reid. Righteous. Convinced of the _correct_ ness of his action. Chasing after some criminal or another. And, with only an inexperienced, young set of constables for backup, he was cornered and shot. And with no expert surgeon on his ticket, no way to be rescued.

 _He_ would have rescued him.

Jackson set his jaw. Teeth clenched tight.

He would have. Jackson would have dug and fished inside him, his fingers wet with his blood and insides, until he pulled the bullet from his body. He would not have stopped until he heard him breathe. Smooth. Regular. Easy. Reid’s sternum rising and falling under the palm of his hand.

But now, he hadn’t the faintest idea where Reid lay, where he might press his hand against his chest. Where he might look down upon his relaxed face and tell him, “I love you. I love you, too.”

Abberline let him look about the room, about the house. He didn’t interfere.

After a turn about the study, Jackson slowed to a stop. He gazed with hazy eyes at the bookshelf, thumbing through books one by one. He took the most worn. A copy of _Heart of Darkness._ A copy of _Gulliver’s Travels._ Reid’s handwriting filled the margins, and Jackson pressed the open pages to his chest. His throat closed. He couldn’t swallow.

He wished he knew what pen Reid had used. He searched the desk for one with blue ink. Impatient, and unwilling to try them all, he wrapped his hand around all of them. Stuffed them in his pocket.

From the doorway, he scanned the room. His eyes fell upon another artifact, one he instantly wanted. One that bore the sweat and salt and oil--all the traces--of his friend. His love.

He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it from its place with delicacy.

He stared at the object for a moment. The glass lenses. The metal frame. The exact points that had come into contact with Reid’s skin.

Jackson touched those places with reverence.

He felt a force, an invisible force, squeeze his heart, deflate his lungs.

Then, forced himself to draw a breath. He tucked the books under his arm and slipped the spectacles into his breast pocket as he headed for the front door.

Abberline tipped his hat to him, wholly unexpected, and told him where to find Reid’s resting place.

Jackson walked there, his whole body heavy. Difficult to move. His feet like lead bricks.

But, by the late afternoon, he ended up in the shade of a yew tree. Golden sunlight bathed the landscape and kissed the blades of grass.

Reid’s headstone stared back at him--simple and plain. Its inscription did not do him justice.

He exhaled a shaky breath. He bit his bottom lip, hard, then swept his hat from his head and tossed it to the ground. He had never even been to Caitlin’s grave. But this one--this one, he visited. He fell to his knees before it. And he bowed until his forehead touched the earth.

“Reid. Edmund,” he whispered, his voice broken and feeble. He spread his hands on the ground and grasped at the grass. He curled his fingers, forcing dirt under his fingernails. Even if anyone else had lingered nearby, he would not have been embarrassed by the gasp-and-cry that jumped off his lips. “ _Damn_ it, Reid. You were...you were supposed to _be_ here. We were...We were supposed to be... _Damn_ it.” Jackson slammed a fist onto the firm, cool ground. “ _Fuck_ you, Reid. Fuck you. I came all the way from...I _missed_ you, you fucking...I love you.”

Jackson threw his body over the gravestone. His arms hung over the stone’s curved, smooth top. Mathilda must have chosen it. He spared a brief thought for her, wondering how much she missed the father she barely knew. Wondering if she had ever known him half as well as he had.

Probably not.

But no one would mourn for _him._ No one would pat his shoulder and express their sympathies for his loss. No.

He stayed for over an hour, slumped over the stone. He read passages of _Gulliver's Travels_ aloud, his voice floating into the humid air, swallowed by it. Before he left, he kissed Edmund’s name, his lips landing on the “E” of “Edmund” and his hand pressing over most of “Reid.”

A month later, he bought Reid’s house. Mathilda was glad to be rid of it.

He returned Reid’s books to their shelves, his spectacles to his desk, his pens to the drawer. He changed the other rooms, bought new furniture, outfitted the bed with new sheets. But he left Reid’s study as it was--Edmund’s touches, his _things,_ traces of him, everywhere--and visited daily. He dragged his fingertips across the wooden desk, over spines of books. He fussed with papers. Wrote with his pens.

Until, finally, one day, Reid’s voice echoed in his head. “Jackson, for the love of _God,_ do you _mind_ , man?” He could practically _feel_ the shift in the air as Reid’s ghost reached for the pen in his hand, and Jackson smiled, replying, “You’ve got _plenty_. Stop being such a greedy baby.” And he continued to write, all the while with a feeling that someone was peering over his shoulder. 


End file.
